


King’s Breaker

by qualitygod



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brothels, Dialogue Heavy, Dream Smp, Elemental Magic, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Graphic Violence, Heavy Angst, High Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Kings & Queens, Lore compliant (somewhat), L’Manburg, M/M, Magic and Science, Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, canon compliance?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28488486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qualitygod/pseuds/qualitygod
Summary: George frowned, his lips churning, “Mn--A bow an’ ar-- It doesn’t matter! if youre here to kill me, do it.”A long pause. George realized how ghastly that mask really was, unfurled sheet white, and the pierce of his eyes visible underneath. he could still feel the heat of his eyes on him, even from afar. then, Dream noticed, sliding his masked face towards him, two hitching breaths away-- and george saw them again, the flame of green, an encapsulated oil lamp, melting into char. Georges head reeled back slowly, and his breath quickened, his fear following suit. his body fastened a spear of a glare, and dream melted it into a puddle of red-hot iron. Who was he, before this?“oh, i will, but not here, not right now,”George quivered--“and not fast enough for you to forget it.” He whispered.George is king. Dream is a masked vigilante. How long can George keep his power?
Relationships: Clay l Dream/GeorgeNotFound
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by the webtoon Kings Maker. I hope my writing and length is worth ur time ;; i’m really excited for this series, and i have so so much in store for it :D

Fire emboldened in erets hands, flickering like molten maple and star-fire embers. Ranboos eyes widened, catching erets hot wrist.

“what on earth are you doing?” He whispered urgently.

Erets white glaze eyes melted into mischevity.

“Well, what do you think i fastened these

potions for?”

Hesitation. Ranboos lips parted, and he flicked his floppy faun-like ear.

Eret hummed, slapping Ranboos grip away. “You burn fire with fire.”

——

George’s eyes titled upwards.

  
  


the pointed tips of the castle were as swooping as sewing needles, shrouding sword-like shadows over George. Facing it, he felt small. small enough to be a cheese crumb, each step he took carried as much power as a skittering rodent. the brutalistic walls were iron guards by themselves; and the coarse wooden door stood a mountain in his vision. he often forgot the very little power he held compared to the kingdom, rows of abodes and bricks roofs, smoke-trickling chimneys, the light dapple of snow and the bake of the sun on his crown and back. home, he thought with a tired mind, yet how foreboding it was to be back—his shoulders tightening—

“Your Highness?” Sapnap trotted to his side, the slick horse he mounted-- huffing at him.

“sapnap-” he starts, the gusto leaving his body. There was a glint of tease in Sapnap’s eyes. george opted to ignore it.

“Glad to see you in good health,”

“Oh.., don’t start with the rubbish formalities now,” George jutted his chin indiginantly as he awkwardly climbed utop his bratty horse. He swore the little fiend tried to smack his legs.

“Awe, come on, Your Highness.” He smirked, “they aren't rubbish,”

“you’re mocking me.” he huffed.

“that's treasonous, no?” sapnap adjusted his heels, the click of the horse iron-plated hooves became faster.

George jostled a bit on the saddle. “it is, yes, i should have your head.”

“you would stuff me like a pig head!”

“No need,” George looked him up and down satirically.

sapnap made a gawking noise, his jaw slack in humorous shock. George smirked, but whipped his head away to stifle a laugh.

“I hope this horse shats on you.” sapnap mentally crossed his arms, George could see it: the petulant pout and eyes screwed shut, the same spitting image from when he was a little boy--bouncy with a piss-dirt mouth and a ferocious attitude, shoving sticks up the royal’s bossums. Well, not literally.

“poor horse, i couldn't put him on the executioneers row..”

“Yes, yes, that's why i'm not threatening you,” Sapnap made a face like his genius idea of making the horse as a source of a threat rather than his sword was going to save his ass. (it was not.)

“that’s rather cruel to your horse isnt it?”

“some sacrifices are necessary!” he quipped, and his horse, Darly, stomped in response.

“i’m a bit worried, finally being back home, my honorary knight is threatening to rub horse bollocks all on my face?”

Sapnap's opened, closed, opened again.

“you’ll catch flies.”

The knight laughed, a hiccupy way of laughing, George thought. He only smiled to himself, pleased.

He had been on a diplomatic embassy stay, visiting a neighboring country to stabilize financial means. He gave more than he took, but in the world of government, some sacrifices must be made, yes. his home was much earthier, warmer. the climate welcomed smiles of flowers, herbs, and cherry bushes. the honey barked trees arched over them, flickering gradations of color from the leaves and sap. the humidity made his tunic and trousers sticky with regret, but anything was better than a frigid day in the slush and ice. his head was tilted to the sky and his face caught the slits of sunshine peaking through the tree rooves.

Sapnap had been rather quiet, enjoying the scenery just as much as George was.

“you look happy to be home,” sap inquired after a pause, his voice oddly friendly and kind —and cautious.

George's lip quirked into a smile, “i really despise the cold, sap, it made me shiver like a little deer.” he moaned, obviously embarrassed by how the mercenaries and minister had seen him, like shivering fool. gods, it made his head hurt. sapnap enjoyed it though, snickering like a fiendish fox. speaking of fox-

his thoughts were interrupted when the gates opened, quaking the ground in their wake. it revealed a happy tail and ears , and a finely dressed emissary by his side. ah, george thought, this was he had been waiting for.

“george!” fundy said with a bit of surprise, and glee. the fox boy was a peculiar sight. not much interaction, but he was happy to converse. quackity, was languid , a beaming grin like he had snark on his tongue. His friends, or acquaintances he would rather call it. it felt discourteous of him to be so guarded, but naturally there was no reason to warm up to a halfbred fox and his secretary with a knack for gambling. 

“how was L’manburg?”

George groaned dramatically, shuffling off his coat as they neared the castle hall. “freezing. it was cold, so-SO cold. i wanted to die the second i got there i thought my bollo-“

“language,..,,” a small sigh from Bad, a mediator and a knight, much less of a knight and more of a mediator. He appeared from another corridor, carrying a conspicuous box full of older rusted trinkets. George thought, where could this devil-man do with a box of rusted silver? Although his reasoning for calling him out for language was acceptable, George had a dirty mouth like he didn’t have a country to protect, to earn respect from, and his knights peers and cabinet as well.

quackity was still howling, enjoying the lack of filter from george. if his sleep deprivation wasnt obvious, it was now. his head throbbed and he felt rather famished. the nights he spent in L’manburg were so cold that even heaps of a blanket nest still wasn’t enough warm his body like a cup of hot soup. he almost moaned at the thought of soup. or someone in his bed, to eat the body heat and drink the skin of a faceless person, coddled in his sheets.

sapnap, bad, quackity, and fundy were trailing behind him as they made their way through the main corridor—the grand skies of marble filled with the sounds of their hanky armor, footsteps, and small talk. admirable, but also peeving him. no envy, just wishing they found tidy work rather than trailing like he was their mother duck. it was insufferable.

“I'm so—tired, christ.” he groaned, and quackity seemed worried-his face full of conviction. it was obvious that it meant there was work for him. He was too fatigued to think about that—work.

“yeah, yes, here i’ll send a maid for extra blankets,” Bad mumbled and disappeared down a different hall.”

Sometimes Bad was gratuitous with his actions, yet times like these he could kiss the shite out of that man and praise him like he was a superior. god bless him, he NEEDED warmth. bed warmth. sleep warmth.

“you look sleep deprived ..did you sleep at all,George?” quackity said, randomly next to him.

“i mean not a lot like i said it was freezing—“

“did your bollocks disappear?” fundy pipped.

quick shock, and then sapnap and quackity were laughing so hard they sounded like squealing rats. george shook his head in disgust, but he was chuckling a bit.

“what! i’m serious!” he added.

“it’s even worse that you’re serious.” George laments.

“alright, let’s let Your Highness sleep.” sapnap enthused, and george had the nerves to try and frown.

“you talk to me like i’m a child.”

“sometimes, i think you still are.”

there was warmth in those words, but reaching his grand chambers made all coherency slip away. Sapnap clicked the chamber door shut, a comfort silence filling the exaggerated space.

the knights and maid bumbled off, and his head fell with a thump against the silk pillows. overfurnished and embroidered gold alcoves filled with silk, purples, blues, and dusty books. it smelt like parfum and unwashed socks. he scrunched his nose. his drowsiness buried him in blankets, and he pressed his face closer to his pillow. sleeping came so fast that the idea of ever waking up wasnt was his first nor last thought—no routine to block him from a full nights test, no stress.

it was slipping away like it was being carried in the colors of wind. and sweet george slept like heaven was a bed.

  
  


“ _Gods, aren’t you beautiful.” the man said, with a lump of hay for a head and skin so brazen it was flicked with sand over his cheeks. such a broad gaze, words, words so loud they dug through his ear canals like maggots festering. George could barely see him, the haze of the sun was thick and stuffy. He was uncomfortable, he noticed, his body spread out onto the grass like a sleeping princess, and the idea of being saved by this possible chivalrous knight was more of a nightmare than a damsel wet dream._

_“so beautiful, christ. red is your color.” his lips were parted and he was so breathless, those lips parted and those eyes glistening citrus. the nameless, faceless, angry man was loathing with lust. his hands fluttered over george’s body._

_he didn’t recall how he got here. the forest was grand, luminous with bioluminescent creatures and eyes, the living breathe of the trees, grass, and moss. the air was sticky with water and sap, yet he had found himself lost here moments ago. his memory of it was lost in the woods just as much as he was._

_so how, did he end up on the floor of detritus and a curious man drinking him with his eyes. the problem dawned, for he was not wearing red clothes. he fancied blues and purples, blue being one of the only colors he could see. the rest of the world was yellow and grey, and the brown was his red._

_he wasn’t wearing red clothes, no, his body was tattered, and his brown milk of eyes were aghast like they were spoiled, and his skin browned at the edges-plasma and fat leaking through the edges of his oozing blood and seared cuts. for whatever reason, george couldn’t bring himself to even blame the listless man in front of him, he couldn’t have been responsible for this. these were gashes from a beast, from a bear or a boar, this was no work of a man. he didn’t remember it, not even the pain, just the air touching it and his own body grinding near the exposed flesh was excruciating, but he made no sound nor even a scream of help. with that, his fear gushing through his bloodstream, and the paralyzed shock, the stranger man seemed so thrilled._

_“hel-“_

_“you shouldn’t speak too much, you’ll tire yourself out.” he grasped george’s chin and pressed a bowl of water down his throat. his grip was rather forceful and it startled george, yet he said nothing. it felt surreal, the way he could count his own eyelashes from his drooping eyelids and the exhaustion of his body taking away the sting of his wounds. he was numb, blissfully so, and the leaves have never felt more comfortable. he thought he should be scared, with his body dangerously losing amounts of blood to the earth, like wine to feed a greedy drunk. the man didn’t seem concerned about his wounds, he was just watching george. just watching. watching._

_watching. he seemed content as well, he was so content to watch george’s life fade out of his pale face and collapse into the wind._

george woke up. his body drenched in a curtain of sweat, he clambered out of bed and trembled to the bathroom. his legs were shaky, knobbed knees crumpling to the floor.. he winced, but the sound from his room with a creak of the door made him squeal like a frightened rat.

“Y-your highness?”

his maid. The relief was a gust of air from his lips, “yes, Marissa, i’m alright.” he sounds annoyed—and truly wasn’t— only his muscles burning made his head blur with pain.

she hesitated at his chamber door. “could i draw you a bath?”

“actually, that sounds wonderful.” he warbled to his feet.

her head poked through the bathroom door, and her face melted into a frown once she saw his disheveled state.

“I heard you scream,” she said worriedly.

he had screamed? all he remembers was needing to piss so bad his kidney hurt.

“i’m sorry for waking you up,” he felt tired again, his bones were gelatin. he disrobed, and she kindly turned away as she drew hot water from the spicket. He sat at the edge of the tub, a silk robe pulled taut around his cold chest.

“don’t apologize, i’m just worried.” She was satisfied with being a comfort, a help to him. He smiled back at her, even if it didn’t feel real on his face.

the tub was brimming with hot steam and his body easily slid under the heat with a happy sigh. it felt so good he could sleep like this. she sat behind him, wrapping her sleeves up to her elbows and massaging moisturizer into his scalp. her hands were deft, that's for sure. She's been doing this since he was an eeny boy, age showing in her soft smile.

“did you have a night terror?”

he hesitates to be honest. “yeah… yeah i did.”

she had noted the delicacy in his words, staying silent. In actuality, George has had night terrors ever since he was 17, noting the increased schizophrenic break vulnerability at early 20s and late teens. or so his sporadic doctor mage would bubble around about. it’s fair to assume he’s terrified of his terrors leading to anything more than just sleep terrors.

“would you like to tell me what it’s about..?” she whispered into the silence.

he rested his head back against the tub sil and let the cool porcelain soothe his burning skin. a sigh, his eyes closed.

“I dreamt of a man standing over me as i died from these .. beast wounds.”

“Your doctor would ramble about symbolism if you told him that..” she snickered and he couldn’t stifle his own laughter.

“but i think the faceless man had slowly killed me. it was an awful way to die.” reliving it behind his eyes..., he opened them; enjoying the artwork and chandelier-esque patterns splattered across the high castle chamber ceilings.

“you reckon he’s real?”

“I reckon I'd take him for a murderer if he was.”

“not all dreams come true, don’t be a skeptical.”

he deadpanned, his eyes flicking upwards. “they have. numerous times. i dreamt about you slicing your finger open and Bless the Gods—you did a few days later!”

she clicked her tongue, “oh, you know that’s a coincidence,”

“was not!” he shot, jostling the water in protest. so childish.

“being killed slowly and cutting my finger are huge contrasts, be realistic, your highness.”

he sunk back into the tub in mild shame.

“he was quite beautiful.”

“oh so a pretty murderer is better than an ugly one?”

he blubbered, “well, yes, you would be less scared! a nice way to go with a nice last look at a pretty face! I want no beast in my face while I die!”

“rather fake of you, only caring about looks.”

“i’ll die before I marry an ugly lady over a pretty one.”

she nearly smacked his head, instead drowning his face in a bucket of water she scooped to wash the suds off his hair. He spluttered water, grumbling.

“what was that for!”

“for being an impertinent brat. no pretty lady will marry a bratty king. pretty women, my my, the history of your bloodline proceeds you.”

a backhanded way to acknowledge his father had be a fucking manwhore. he had the audacity to snicker at the mention of a dead relative. it wasn’t inherently disrespectful if it wasn’t direct.

“I'm no common whore.”

“no, ‘course not, but your brothel history as a prince is rather ridiculous.”

he scoffed, “i haven't done that in years...,” 

“ah, at least he grows mature!” she exclaims with a ‘Hurrah!’, and he chewed on his lip to stipple a laugh.

“i was a well mannered child..,” he grumbled 

“Yes, your highness.”she said softly. 

He looked up at her, “i’ve been called an old soul you know!”

“mm yes your highness, power and glory gave you a library and you chose brothels over knowledge.”

he laughed, his head collapsed against the tubsil.

“doesn’t mean i’m stupid.” 

she knows that well, the ends of her eyes crinkling. 

“you should let more people see that.” her voice was soft, and his heart burned and twisted. a guarded mind and heart led to easy-going impressions of coldness and standoffishness. his maid and appointed knights knew more than he thought they did.

The tub drained and he climbed out, wrapping himself once more. very little words were exchanged as she slipped out of his chambers to fall back asleep. he could not, laying against the embroidered cherrywood headboard. He sighed, the loneliness of the hour filling him through and through. lazily, he manhandled his pillows to imitate the form of a partner. he cuddled up into it, pressing his cheek into a pillow and wrapping his leg around the other. he uttered a goodnight to the pillow-person he had created in his empty space of a bed and a room and fell asleep comfortably once more.

He awoke to quackity ripping silks off his bed and a loud groan from George followed. “your highness, up we go! up we go!” the happy-pitter-patter man exclaimed.

“Today we work!” he clapped his gloved hands together.

George groggily slipped out of bed, dressing himself dis-intimately. he wished Marissa was busying herself in his chambers rather than his rambunctious Emissary that barged in like a drunken fool. It was rather hard for him to lace his tunic, but Alex was quick to yank the half-corset rather forcefully behind him. He choked on his spit in surprise, doubling over, and Alex guffawed in delight.

“that’ll wake you up.” Alex nodded in satisfaction, his fists placed on his jutted hips.

“you’re too rough, my ribs’ll bruise.” George sulked, and Quackity only smiled, ushering him out of his room while he loosely flung a blue cape and garnishes over his body and fingers. George clasped the golden cape broach, and adorned his neck and hands with simplistic jewels. his crown nestled kindly on his mused hair. Within a whirlwind of seconds, George was flung out into the world of royalty once more and he slipped into his usual routine.

his heels clicked as he entered the kitchens, his eyes and stature resting over the stout chefs working to feed the castle innards. wafting mint and lemon, and the grizzled chicken bones and meat escaping the ovens heat. golden-brown flesh of the beast, and George’s mouth watered at the sizzling quail eggs and pig belly on the buttered iron pans.

he sadly moved on, fixating as he trampled through the busy main corridors and bid greetings to his knights, maids, butlers, chefs, and mages. some were gleeful, others neutral, nonetheless, a peaceful day was better than a good meal. He smiled satisfied.

he made it to his office, reaching the skies limits with bookspines and dust. his desk was broader than his wingspan, and his dark wood chests lined the panoramic stained glass walls. He fell into his chair, the scratchy cushion pricking his clothed thighs—but the uncomfortable rabbit furred seat still felt like home. here he sat, most of his day wasted away in milky papers of finanarcy and delicate lawful scrolls. meetings, words of quick approval, disapproval, vetoes. assertions and dis-assertions of wars, trades, and boundaries. He drowned in it, the smell of fresh paper cuts and calluses fingers from quill burns. the routine sunk quite naturally to him, however, the interruptions never ceased.

“Your Highness-“ a squeak from the door and a pair of orangey ears appeared. George beckoned him further, disliking interruptions so early in the morning.

“Ah, well,” he sweats, his lips drawn into a near frown.

“What is it fundy?” he almost dares to say, annoyed. but it is only his tiredness, the morning sun bake and the yearn for a flaky apple tart.

“there’s been a commotion at the front gate i- i really cannot describe it.” he sounded in shock, like this fucking commotion was a newly earned trauma. there was a lack of fear so he assumed it was just a stupid little spectacle. With a sigh, George was at his feet and through the door. He stomped to the front gate entrance, fundy confidently at his stride, only a few footsteps behind.

The gates rose, and the knights seemed squabblish and nervous as George's presence became distinct.

and ah, yes, this was a spectacle on an icy morning. Here he was, The Blade deftly fencing with a shaky guard, throwing rubbish insults at his face about his … mother. The man clearly knew who this pig-headed man was, but the light heartedness in his aggression was concerning. George was not a fan of this man.

“What on earth-“ George boomed, catching their attention, “-are you doing?” he laughed, his face drawn into a twitch.

Technoblade dropped his sword, straightening himself and sliding said sword into his sheath.

“i was confident this was the only way i could get your attention without causing an uproar.”

george looked to his guards sardonically, which they blubbered: “he-he needed to have an appointment and he just insisted on sparring with us and we had-we had no idea what do with him it—wasn't at all a dire threat i—“

George raised a finger softly to shush the man, and his shoulders relaxed.

“come, Blade.”

George said hesitantly, and the gates broadened as they walked side by side through the corridor, deviating away from crowds and choosing a quieter way through the gardens.

“You don’t have to call me ‘The Blade’ anymore, it’s a tired phrase.”

“why are you here?” George interrupted.

“straight to the point.”

“i don’t really have time for small talk.” 

Techno was distracted quickly by the buds of flowers wilting. “i’m here for something that should be more private.”

“since when have you been concerned for my safety?” George stopped in his tracks, facing Technoblade with his arms crossed behind his back.

“i think a warning to you should be private in the case of onlookers.” techno said justified, his eyes scanning the bushes and trees, tracking possible hiding eyes and places where hair may peak as an eavesdropper may be close.

george’s neck hair bristled.

“there’s an impending attack on your Kingship, George.”

he scoffs in disbelief, “so you’re warning me before you aim a sword at my throat this time.”

Technoblade clicked his tongue, “just because I hate the government doesn’t mean I entirely hate you.”

George huffed a small laugh.

“this attack is less of anarchy and more of a .. threat onto you.”

George purses his lips into a fine line. He's heard this before, heard the warning of a threat overlooking his throne, his own power. it’s infuriating, yes, but the fact that The Blade went out of his way to visit him, in his quarters, was absurd and threatening in itself.

“you’re a wanted fugitive, Blade. I recommend you escort yourself out.”

the man had the actual audacity to sigh, as if it were some tedious task to come here and visit him. some twisted rage bubbled inside of george and he stared down at him hard.

“i don’t know what you expected me to say.”

“I expected you to have more caution.”

George frowned.

“I'll take my leave,” technoblade finished, his hand at his hip at the hilt of his sheathed sword. George assumed it was to intimidate. yet, there was no reason to. He has already intimidated his staff, his grizzly pig mask covering his chin of scrabbly scruff and a monstrous line of shoulders and animal-furred red cape anunduating in his wake. he disappeared, a trot towards the front gate with bewildered looks and stares. George’s posture was now tense, he felt overly alert, his eyes flicking to onlookers through stained glass windows and the spectacles in the library with their books trembling in their hands. must be a sight, a terrorist and a king casually mingling. Bad was definitely going to bite his head off for being so reckless yet he had no air to care. He stomped back to his quarters, the door of his study shut tightly, knocking papers off his desk. He collapsed into his chair, slamming his head onto the desk.

a threat. a threat on his kingship. it wasn’t a big deal to him but to the kingdom it was dire. It was intimidating. he couldn’t imagine a life of wishing to overthrow royalty, uttering those words were treasonous and technoblade would have been arrested for even spewing it so casually. it’s a stupendous idea, to overthrow him.

in his great luck, his emissary popped through the door, slipping inside.

“Your Highness.”

“Alex,” he pursued his lips. “could you strengthen the guards around my chambers, study, and front gates?. double it at the back gates. i’ll contribute to fund the gardens and kitchens to feed my knights. i’ll be happy to slice some of my budget for this.” he solidified as he trifled through stacks of bonded papers and letters.

The man looked rather taken aback. “that’s rather sudden.. and high risk.”

“high risk of what?”

“the budget, of course.”

George stopped what he was doing, his hands settling into his lap. “i’m being threatened. someone wants to overthrow the royal family. and i’m the last in line. i would care less of my death if there was an Heir.” he snapped.

Quackitys pupils expanded and his brow line was lost in his hair. He visibly started to sweat, a rock of pumice now in his throat. “Well,” he cleared his throat.

George rubbed his temples and pressed his cheek into his arm, lying awkwardly along his desk. “if it’s inefficient, then double the protection of my chamber and increase weaponry in my study and around it instead. give the guards at the front gate and back gate a proper reassessment of their weaponry as well, and armor if you may.” he rambled off, but was quick to dip a quill into ink to write his alternative onto a scroll of stretched-thin animal hide.

“if that’s easier to make possible?”

“I am sure it is Your Highness, however, who do you think is threatening your kingship?” he asked, an analytical eye glinting in the lamp oil.

George set his lips into a hard line. “realistically….. a group of bandits”

“yes, yes. i agree.” but oddly enough, quackity seemed hesitant. there was something he wasn’t telling george, it was clear he had an idea who was threatening him, and it wasn’t a group of bandits. “ I'll have a mage on the case as well. to find the culprit.” he adds.

George stares a bit suspiciously, “yes… thank you…”

Quackity was out of the door, and his study felt empty once more. He sighed, and busied himself with his work.

———-

George happily peeled off his sticky leather tunic after a long day of being buried in paper and ink, his back creaking. his slid off his puffed shirt and threw it onto the armchair in the alcove of his bed quarters. he looked out the window, a canopy of stained glass and drawn purple velvet curtains. the stormy clouds eating the stars in the sky and hugging the moon hung in the sky.

Truthfully, George didn’t love the night. He stared out into the gloomy scape, the milky lanterns and snowfall melting into a blur of flushed out light. He didn’t love how dark it became, and how little control he had over when he could go blind or not-a trembling lantern was all he would have to guide him. He matched a few candles, one at his desk and his bedside, out of fear. at night, it was especially cold as well. so as he slipped in blue silk, he shivered violently under the scratchy furs of his mattress. He started up at the ceiling, the low-hung chandelier with burned out candles and solidified crayon wicks staring back at him.

they asked him, in a whispery wind, ‘will you sleep tonight george?’

he glared up at the chandelier that taunted him in his restless wake, and turned on his side in a fit of annoyance. He cuddled into his pillows, trying to sap out as much warmth as he could dish. however, sleep was not very welcoming and he seemed to toss and turn, and the pitter of the rain was rather testy on his waking mind. he couldn’t habituate it, so the sound of the rain became a stall rather than a help, as he usually saw it as some sort of sleep-enabler.

as he was lulled into a light sleep, a monstrous whip of thunder shot him out of his bed and gave him a heart palpitation. terrified as he was, he trembled to his feet, and re-lit the blunted candle at his bedside

with shaky hands. He walked over to the window, slowly removing the curtains from the hooks. Before he did, he noticed the veins of lightning across the midnight sky and the downpour of hail and rain and ice and slush. it was worth a grimace. however, fear shot through him when he noticed the crippling flower bed from the hail. with late realization, the beds of Windwheels he had planted by himself mind you, and the realization was so stark that he scrambled for slippers..

“shit-shit… shit!” he exclaimed, and for some reason it was so enraging that his flower garden was being destroyed without him preparing for this storm. it was also an easy distraction, but that was less of the point.

he dashed out of his quarters, the loud knocks of the door handles and hinges filling the void of the empty corridors. he sprinted down towards the side garden gate, quickly sliding past the security without catching an eye on his back. he fumbled through random doors and entryways and eventually found the garden shed. he was able to access it without being flung with slush, and grappled for a tarp and a shovel. the mud had slithered in the shed from the bottom and his slippers were already ruined.

“oh no, no. no no no no no no. please.” he whined through winded teeth, and slapped open the door of the garden shed. he puffed out his chest, as a flap of lightning illuminated his confidence. he was so utterly prepared to protect some measly flowers, all of which could easily be replanted, and his lazy conscience begged to escape this cold but he felt so obligated. screw these stupid flowers.

he stomped out into the mud, his threaded slippers and pajama bottoms unable to ever be repaired by even aggressive hand washing. the rain was a violent massage of truth that, he was not strong enough to withstand this. he wanted to sleep, to stop, to turn back. he was already here and the soak of the ice and hail was soaked into his bones— he couldn’t put this effort to waste this late in the game, could he? yet the icky mud and water and ice on his feet and ankle made him nearly buckle face first into the mud. matter of fact, he did fall, with a wet thud at that, caking his hands and cheek in compost.

“AARRRFFG!” he screamed in utter frustration, but in this weather, he wouldn’t be heard for miles. oddly enough, that was quite liberating.

the flowers were in sight, in line of his angry stampede through the wilting shrubbery and tomato sticks and vines. there was no saving for that, but the Windwherls still had their glimmer of life.

with a quick few leaps, he was able to secure the flowerbed and fling out the tarp from its folded position. however his frail arms did no good, the tarp was flicking wildly with the pace of the wind and he screeched a flurry of intangible curses. he desperately held onto the ends of it with might literally brought down from the Gods—

“do you need some help?” came a shouting voice, and George whipped his head around.

and christ, he wasn’t really expecting a masked vigilante delicately perched( but soaked) on the garden ledge wall, intimidatingly hugged by an axe that hung over his head and an inconspicuous belt of potions and gadgets. he dressed like a stupid Fae, all of fairytale lore murmured into the ears of little children, but you could beg to say he waltzed in that delicate leafy leather armor like a got-damn ethereal prince.

George stared in bewilderment. easily, this man could see him as a measly servant trying to save some flowers. for the first time, he came off as a normal citizen. his blue silk was masked by the hard rain, his face was caked and all signs of purity were melted by the mud. holy fuck, was he tired yet scared because now he had two problems—these measly flowers and this masked villanious presence. a part of him wanted to wilt and die like a plant in this storm.

“no thanks!” he screeched back, and his awkward face of discomfort may have not been very visible, but it was enough of a statement to get this possible murderer off his tracks. surprisingly, the man laughed. It was faint, but it made George frown. not only was his situation strenuous on his body, but it was embarrassing to his very core. that axe could be useful to chop off his own fucking head at this point.

he huffed out confidently, straightening his posture and ignoring the possible murderous threat on his back. he let the tarp fling in the wind, and slowly lowered into a squat as he dug mindlessly to hook an edge of the tarp into the nailed ground. he could feel worms and the mush of the water and ice and his fingers fucking stung. he nearly whined from the amount of pain, the way his hands were so vulnerable to hypothermia right now was fucking ridiculous—he could burst into tears. the stress on his fingers and hands lightened, the masked man had grabbed the other end of the tarp and also squatted to look for a place to nail it back into the ground. George stilled, and once again stared at the mystery man.

Seriously, what is his shit luck? it’s quite possible this may be the bandit threatening his life, but he had very little qualms to worry about it. This was the perfect place to die, vulnerable to storm, where the runoff would conceal evidence, blood, ripped cloth, or signs of struggle. his fingers pruned.

“i said no thanks.” he said, his voice more visible as the storm was still consistent yet a bit more quiet in terms of the whistle of the wind and the vortex of ice and rain.

the mask flicked up at him. “i know.”

George pursed his lips. “i don’t think you’re supposed to be out here, sir.” he was faking peasantry, yet still was snotty through ‘n through.

“sir? do Kings call peasants sir’s now?” the man taunted.

“oh for Gods sake-“ he moaned in frustration, and so distracted he almost lost grip of his tarp end, yet a yelp and a guiding hand, he was able to grab it once more.

With a solid snap of his wrist, George connected the hook, nail, and tarp end. it whipped around like an angry sea, yet disabled any harm in the Windwheels way. flooding was still amidst.

“who are you?” George snapped.

“i watched you the entire time. you’re not very vigilant.” the mask titled to the side.

“how could i have seen you perched like a fuckin’ eagle on my garden hedges!” he sqwuaked.

The man laughed once more, it was quite soft and loose, close to being vulnerable. it left him rather defenseless, and in that second george could have taken that axe and snapped his head clean of his neck.

“who are you? state your business.” george reiterated in anger.

“let’s get inside first.”

“we are not going anywhere!” he blubbered, slamming his foot into the mud and throwing it across a few berry sticks, some of which were buried in viscous puddles.

the man's shoulders raised, and deflated. “my name is Dream, i’m a traveling merchant.” the man rose, and held out his hand.

“now, let’s go inside.”

george indignantly ignored his hand and stomped towards the garden shed, soon feeling incredibly exposed and vulnerable with his neck and shoulders and flimsy material sheer and translucent, the moon crystallizing the rain drops clinging to his skin, blush spread up his shoulders and ears and he ached—his body was in pure agony—his muscles screamed and he felt his flesh being ripped from joint to bone, his teeth pulled from the hard chatter knocking like the nutcracker.

‘Dream’ followed loosely behind, but watched every one of his movements like a hawk. George shivered from the cold, and out of fear.

they collapsed in the garden shed, a bit of warmth brought from the enclosure. George could barely see his face, the slivers of moonlights from the wet cracks of the shed illuminating him-or the mask. George turned his back to him, violently shivering. He grabbed a few blankets from the corner, and childishly threw one of starched hay at him. which he caught.

“Who are you.” George spat, for the third time, turning back to face him with his body now burrowed in hay blankets.

the man snorted.

“what?” he frowned.

“you look like a mole sticking out of the ground like that.” the man said between a fit of laughter.

George's cheeks brazened with red and he lowered the blankets to cover his lips and chin.

“you being a mercenary doesn’t explain why you were perched on my hedg-“

“It was the best vantage point to find shelter, which I only just now found.”

“You could have gone to a brothel,” George rationalized, still very on edge, but quickly retorted as a challenge.

“you’re not very friendly.” Dream offered with a lean-back against the shed door, yet he was very on guard. the glint of that axe said so.

“you could be very much here to kill me.”

george has never looked death in the face before (and there was very little face to look for here) so it was clear he was scared, nonetheless the chills from the abrupt weather did him no good in seeming charming and put-together.

the man laughed, chuckled maybe. it was out of surprise from his honesty, or faux nonchalantness.

“if i was here to do that, you wouldn’t know.”

that sounded like a threat yet it was an un-implied death stamp—George shivered violently and any words died in the back of his throat. The man was unnerving.

“aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea for saving your life?”

“saving my life—“ George breathed in disdain.

“bollocks! I should arrest you for laundering! you’re carrying a menacing axe and-and you’re masked! you’re looking like a killer the more i look at you.” George floundered, scrambling for words and huffed petulantly.

The man was so, so humored. laughing, throwing his head back. there was a thick adam’s apple attached to that void of a face, a chiseled stature revealed under the glow of the moon. there were specks of moles and freckles stapled all over his skin, very little that he could see if he squinted.

“i’ll be back for my cup of tea,” ‘Dream’ whispered in the moonlit shed, with very little visible eyes under that mask. the hay blanket over his shoulders fell, and he slipped through the crack of the door; and in the seconds that george peaked his head out, the man had already disappeared into the gloom of the hailstorm.

———

“Your Highness you look like a trampled puppy!”

Bad squealed, as dawn ate away at the horizon. Quackity followed close behind, as for george was carefully wrapped in blankets. he couldn’t seem to focus on what they were snickering about, or what they were saying, the masked vigilante curtly dampened his mood.

“bath,” he grumbled, and Alex enjoyed another round of clinking laughter.

Bad and Marissa were trekking through his chambers, and he found himself slipping away drowsily. he was so weak, after such a simple ordeal. (being whipped around in a hailstorm is not simple for anyone)

“he’s going to catch a cold if you’re not quick, Bad!” Alex cooed from the bath, his sleeves rolled up as the water cascaded into the tub. there were frantic sounds from Bad at the comment, it was clear that Alex taunted Bad like it was his priority job (when it’s to be George’s appointed emissary, however Alex’s history as a Bard with a lengthy education prevails him.)

as he mindlessly slipped into the tub, and the knights and emissary and maid disappeared out of his vision, likely to fetch towels and rose serum to cool the flame of his fever—the trickle of that hearty ‘Dream’ laugh and the flecks of his neck freckles framed in his mind, yet there was caution and alertness to this thoughts. that man could very much be the bandit baiting to kill him. george pursed his tired lips.

he is mostly definitely out to kill him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graphic violence and sexual description warning!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will paste spotify playlist for this chapter soon :) be warned and enjoy!

Quite often, George gets letters from his grandmother. She forgets to signature often as well, so deduction by her curvy handwriting has become a second skill to George. So yes, he rifles through stacks and bonded piles of letters to find hers. it’s a simple pleasure. 

His dull ironed knife slipped under the wax-branded envelope, and he sighed with a lean-back into his pleathered chair as he read aloud:

“Dear My Georgie,” 

He lipped eloquently, and snickered a laugh. A term of ‘endearment’ the old hag used ever since he was a child. 

“I hope you are well, I have many maidens wishing for your hand! Please get back to your grandmother, I have not heard from you in ages.”

Ah, how she insists on marriage. He's never cared for a loveful or loveless marriage, nor did he see the fine lines between it. He didn’t really appreciate love in the first place, a cutesy past time to appeal to the general eye of glitz and glamor and kisses and peach fuzz. 

“Write back to me soon! Lady Naho’nis is very delighted to meet you, her and I have had tea these past few moons. she’s a lovely lady, Georgie! you will be just as delighted. She will be attending the Wintry Gala, and I insist you dance with her, Georgie. Love, Grandmother.” 

  
  


—is where the letter ended, and there was a soft, almost sad, smile on his face as he crumpled up the letter and slammed it towards the bin. 

  
  


Lady Naho’nis, snuggly fit in the Elharen Realm, lurking with lively potion fiends and Fauns, the occasional poke-eared Fae. he didn’t mind them, rather liked them, but Lady Naho’nis didn’t have the best of reputations, the whispers of her dehumanizing underpins death matches and gamblings… 

However, he was surprised to hear she would be attending the Wintry Gala. 

His grandmother tended to glaze over the rumoring details, she found the person not the whispers of them to be more interesting. (and George must applaud her, that’s a wonderful mindset when rumors keep the shadows of our bodies alive) So he wonders, what a simple tea party with Mrs. Naho’nis must look like. Fae tends to be sultry, and he knew she was brimming with muted (half) Fae blood. His mind wandered, his neck craned back against the edge-pillow of his seat. 

“Your Highness?” a sliver of an ear popped through the door. 

“Ah, Fundy, yes.” He mumbled distantly, and beckoned him forward with a finger. 

“More letters, and oh—” the man's tail frayed as he stepped through the door frame. 

“I’m working on a deliberate system to organize the letters, lighten the workload, toss out the weak investment proposals and such,” Fundy explained with soot caked on his lips and work apron, which was rather distracting. 

George was endeared by his creative gears. “That sounds perfect, thank you Fundy,” he smiled with a lack of warmth. The man nodded quickly, left the stack of letters on the corner of his desk; and he was out of the door before George could build conversation in the emptiness of his quarters. 

He flicked his wrist to check the time, and was delighted by the thought of a meeting in the next 5 minutes. ah bless, an escape from this suffocation of squid ink and silky crow quills. What a simple mind, a royal mind, he thought petulantly.

he swung his frilled cape around his shoulders and aligned the slanting crown to fit finely around his sweeps of hair. the door clicked open, catching quite a few eyes as he stepped out. 

“Your meeting is in five minutes, sir,” a scuttery guard said as he fell into step with George’s confident strides. 

“Yes i’m aware, it’s proper to be nearly early,” he said as he adjusted the cuffs of his puffed cotton shirt. 

“Yes, of course, your highness.” The wimp-like guard rushed out, robotically, automatically, a subservient enabling phrase. 

George laboriously twisted his knuckle for a crack, an annoyed tic, since he wasn’t a huge fan of this crab-legged buffoon at his side, yet he made little noise of complaint. 

The enormous statues cleaned the emptiness of the echoed corridors, blank with black maple and onyx engravings of vines, leaves, and slick flowery hedges. His kingdom was a living earthy sustenance, earth flowing through every cherry hedge and shrubbery, beckoning the life of trees to breathe the air of royalty more than royalty himself. He didn’t fancy gold as he did silver, he didn’t fancy marble as he fancied stained glass and the kaleidoscope of blue-ocean waves curled around the glass of trees and hunkering trunks. The walls were a marvel, and it pinged a greenish bluish hue along passerbys, alighting a sense of beauty to skin. 

His footsteps thundered, and the monstrous curves of the ceilings were hung with eel-smoothed sterling architecture, refusing to make this kingdom as empty as it really is. The curly pillars of candle lights and the natural daylight gave way to his path, and he enjoyed the knick of his heels on the ground, loud and vibrant. 

“Remind me the purpose of this meeting?” 

“Ah,” the knight stumbled, “Festival planning and the Wintry Gala.”

“Wintry Gala?”

“Yes, two days time.”

He blinked furiously, “two days time..?”

The knight stared, a bit taken aback, “Yes, Your Highness… Have you forgotten?” He asked in a wince. 

in fact, he did.

“No!” he slapped a hand in the air, waving. “No. no of course not, I remember. Just not ..ready .”

“Ah, Tailor Puffy has already fixed you a Gala suit.” the pipsqeauk of a guard said proudly, proud to be above schedule. 

“Really?” he said with a bulge in his eyes. The knight nodded. 

and then came the relief with a tight smile and a sigh between George's teeth, his strides losing a frantic rhythm and falling naturally with the Knight’s. 

he genuinely hoped he wasn’t forced into red, or a too-form-fitting corset. The idea haunted him. He liked comfort, but there was very little comfort when it came to appealing to the public as the Honorable King. 

  
  


In record time, they reached the meeting hall and the great oak doors were cracked open, where his secretaries, envoys, and emissary all restlessly stirred around the moon carved table. papers and quills scattered in an organized fashion, and he squarely took his spot at the head of the table with a golden-embroidered chair hanging over his frame. 

  
  
George settled, and a hush fell over small conversation as he adjusted in his seat. his eyes flicked to the doors and confirmed the tight shut. “Let the meeting start,” he nodded. 

His treasurer was first to organize words, his papers stacked neatly and frayed at the edges. “Our budget for the Wintry Gala falls short under forty-five thousand Knicks-“

“and?” George interrupted before any other slick mouth could speak. 

“That’s—that’s good,” he shuffled through notarized documents, sliding one towards george.

“the last Gala exceeded sixty-thousand Knicks.”

“and we are on schedule with preparation of the Gala hall as well,” a bearded envoy added in a gravelly declaration. the ‘a’ and the ‘r’s were heavily Elharen dialect, George noticed. 

“however,” the envoy clears his throat, “the wagons for fruits and spirits are rather late. they’ll be here tomorrow.” he said with a nervous fit with his fingers and pen. 

“is that enough time for the kitchens to prepare side dishes?” A mousy secretary, the head of the kitchen he presumed. there was a sudden anxious gust in the air. 

“Worst case, cheese spreads first and alcohol and fruits are served later.” George added, sounding a bit off, even bored. 

No, he wasn’t a really huge fan of these meetings. This was their job, so their dedication to perfection and to their job overall was much more serious than he saw it. There was no reason for nail-biting and brow-sweats over fruit. It could be even laughable, but they seem satisfied that their king wasn’t annoyed by said lack of fruit, which furthers the point of wariness his cabinet has towards him. But the idea that he would care that much shows power and glory is intimidating in presence and lack thereof. 

  
  


Through his strung out boredom, the empty talk of the Gala and the meeting was finally concluded, thankfully, because the smell of old cotton sheets and dust was starting to become suffocating. The nervous flitting guard was at his side once more, while Quackity flanked the other. George stared down at the tiny knight, and curved a brow. 

  
  


“you are dismissed, I know to go to Tailor Puffy…'' George mumbled dryly, and the guard nodded curtly and was off. The clarity of the situation was more than embarrassing, since more than half of his staff saw him as a pretty doll that couldn’t find his way around his own home. He scoffs, and Quackity is still amused. 

“what’s so funny, Alexis?” George snipped. Alex’s eyes popped and his eyebrows buried in his fringe. 

“he’s new,” is all he said. 

“he’s the size of a pony.” George flattened, and took a sharp turn towards the kitchens, rounding the corner and finding the snuggled tailor shop, hidden with glass walls and churning cotton wheels. 

Alex snorted and opened the door, a tinkling ring of the bell making Puffy’s head peak out from a grieving desk, completely indistinguishable from the stacks of books, scrolls, leather, and textiles. 

Her hair framed her cheeks, and her rimmed baby hairs were a crown from a messy ponytail that may have once looked like a slickback. Her tunic was form fitting and most definitely an old soldier uniform she snuck from the barracks since long skirts and heeled kitty heels were not her garment of choice. The masculinizing thick boots and rolled up sleeves and muscular arms suited her like a happy glove. She also seemed so delighted to have company, trampling through the dirty floors with a ‘yippee’ grin. 

“George yes! I'm glad you’re here, to get fitted, yes?” She squirmed. 

“Wintry Gala,” he dared to groan, and Alexis smiled. 

From what george knew, she loved Gala dressing, it was the best time to unfurl royal velvets and sparkling, expensive jewels. The pep in her step seemed to rub off on him a little bit. 

“I really like what I've made this year,” she started to ramble, and disappeared deeper into the store, which Alex and George weaved through with her. 

“I know you prefer blues and i really tried to,” she made a circling gesture, “broaden your stature, kingly! kingly shoulders.” She snapped. 

“How've you dressed me this year, puffy?” Alex sniffed, wiping away a fake tear. She huffed, her cheeks deflating with air and the hairs falling in her face caught the breeze of her huff. 

“You’ll be dressing like every other subordinate, Quackity.” She said distantly, more focused on george. 

“I'm excited to see it,” George said, with a glance over his shoulder at Quackity, who’s humorous facade never fell. 

Puffy stopped in front of a covered mannequin, but from here it only looked like a misconstrued blob. she ripped off the dusty tarp, and George's eyes widened. 

“Wow,” he chuckled in disbelief. 

“you’ve really outdone yourself..,” Quackity whispered, and puffy was, quite literally, puffing with confidence and content. 

The suit was a beautiful, deep blue velvet, shimmery and stagnantly thick. as vibrancy was captured from the very depths of the deepest caverns of the midnight sea, and fabric molded from there on. jewels fastened around the shoulder edges of the sewn-in cape, which fell gingerly around the ankles of the suit in gentle waves. there was even more crystallized beauty at the dip of the blazer, with a milk cotton shirt as the undergarment. the cuffs and buttons were a shined onyx, with the leather boots finely polished. 

  
George absentmindedly brushed his fingers along the sleeve, a rough, yet solid material. He was quite satisfied, the royalty captured in essence. 

“this is wonderful, puffy, thank you.” The words came empty, but they registered as gratitude, George could tell from the toothy smile he received from her. utterly delighted, and her fingers made quick work around the pins that forced a frame against the cloth mannequin. 

“Let's make sure I got all the measurements,” she nodded, deftly flicking the cape off of the mannequin's shoulders and throwing it at quackity to hold, who laughed in mild surprise. 

he groaned, absolutely dreading the process of spread eagle-out and letting the frozen stance break his muscles’ will. it crippled him within minutes, and it only made measurements, pinning, adjustments, and corset-pulling all the more frustrating. 

Puffy’s face gleamed, and she gingerly handed him the two-piece suit; and he disappeared behind a moth-eaten curtain to dress into the stiff material. The garb was absolutely magnificent, such a deep hue in contrast to his nearly translucent skin. He expected to have more of a tan, but the stay in L’manburg definitely drained the inch of melanin he had flecked on his shoulders and face. 

He stepped out from the curtain, and Quackity’s brows were to the sky, while puffy made a small gasp of surprise. she hurried over, her tape slithering around his waist and cinching the material a bit. he raised his arms, a small ‘hmph’ escaping his mouth. 

“The measurements are nearly perfect,” she bit her lip, 

“You lost a few inches on your waist, I had used last year's measurements, ohhh-“ she groaned. 

Quackity brushed the silk cape over his own shoulder cooly, “I should tell the kitchens to serve more fats.” 

“Shut it,” George glared as puffy crouched around his legs and tightened the inch tape around the circumference of his thighs. He tapped his feet a little farther so it was easier for her to measure. (there was very little difference but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless) 

“Oh come on, I was serious!” Alex said with a smile. 

“I don’t like fats.” George spat childishly, holding his arms up so that puffy could press the measuring tape to the length of his wimpy shoulders and ribs. 

“Being a picky eater isn’t a good look for a king….” Quackity mumbled. 

“Since when has anyone ever cared about that.” George drawled. 

“People pay more attention than you know…” he said with a teasing lilt, and George was tempted to laugh. even puffy was smiling a bit, yet her tongue touched her upper lip and her face was drawn in concentration. 

“alright, I think I’m finished. I just have to cinch the fabric at your waist.” she said, rolling up the tape deftly between her fingers. 

“that won’t take long?” George asked. 

She shook her head nonchalantly, “no, of course not, an hour at most.”

“Seems a bit long for you,” he tilted his head, a small, jagged smile on his face. 

She puffed her cheeks, “don’t underestimate me.” 

“I wouldn’t have to if I got a special fitting!” Quackity pipped in. 

She whipped her head and glared, clicking her tongue. “Get out! you’re like a rat infestation i had two moons ago.” She slapped his back lightly, while he guffawed, head thrown back . They both walked towards the entrance, their silhouettes mingling in the thick dust particles eating away at George's clarity and eyesight, or maybe his eyesight was just poor overall. He had to squint to see them. 

He awkwardly pulled off the garb, scared to rip it or ruin it. He wrapped the fabric over his arm like a hankerchief and walked to the front, leaving it on her haphazardly spacious desk. 

He and quackity bid goodbyes with puffy, and George planned for someone to pick up the Gala suit. George took a heaping breath, happy to leave the stuffy corner. 

George rubbed the bulb of his throat, “I was breathing straight dust.” 

“could even be bad for her lungs, I bet.” quackity queried.

“She'll be a croaking toad before her fifties, lord,” George moaned in humourity, quackity receiving it with a snickering laugh, covering his mouth with the back of hand. 

Their conversation ran short, being stopped in their tracks by Sapnap. It was odd, since most of the time he’s stationed outside of the castle. He wouldn’t have stopped George and quackity on their way to the kitchens without good reason, and the frantic flit of his eyes and the dribbling sweat on his scruffy face was enough to go by. 

The knight opened his mouth, out of breath, “Front gate-“

Quackity stepped closer, a hand on his shoulder. sapnap looked scared, like he had seen a childburn to death. “what happened?”

“There was a breach at the Front Gate,” he swallowed, “I don’t even know—“ he trailed off. 

“is it an active threat?” George asked. They looked at him, one more nervous than the other. 

“No!—no. it’s just,” He pinched his face,

“it—you need to see it for yourself, George.” 

Sapnap avoided using his name, out of respect for his title, but there were times where he would use it. It was serious, whatever this was, and it sent a simple chill down the track of his spine. It was obvious that there came a lot of weight when using formal titles, but George has never been a huge person on formalities and straight-line courtesy, especially after knowing Sapnap long enough to know there is more respect than just titles. Quackity, however, looked rather startled to hear that from him, or to even see him so panicked. Quickly, all three briskly walked towards the impending Front Gate, and George could already see the cloud of people slowly inching towards the doors, meaning it was becoming a commotion, and a possible staff panic. With panic comes rumors, with rumors comes action, and with that is his reputation on the line. He walked fervently at this point, with Sapnap leading them, the echo of metal and footsteps turning the shaky-leafed heads of onlookers. His first assumption was that it had to be a dead drunkard, or a stripped sleeping woman, a haughty sight. 

What he didnt expect as he approached the scene, was an unsightly array of dead crows; all of them scattered across the pavement and a few impaled on the white fences. The horror was like someone ripped a flock of birds and slammed them to the floor. It piled enough nausea in his stomach that George looked away, covering his mouth and nose from the building, revolting stench of animal carcass and oxidized blood. The sounds and whispers from citizens outside of the castle were more startling. George raised his shoulders and head squarely, pulling off a few sympathetic glances and frantically signaling the guards towards him. 

he gulped, and opened his mouth to speak, but nervousness in labored breathing was all he could put to words. George really had no idea how to react to a situation like this, or what to make of it, a threat? His eyes flitted to the scene, and the lulling eyes of a sweet child meeting his own from across the gates, and a part of his resolve started to crumble. if he is being put under threat, that means his kingdom and citizens are under the same threat as well. 

Quackity stepped in, whispering urgently, “get this cleaned up.” and the nickel-masked guard nodded fervently. 

Sapnap was at his side, and George's vision a bit hazy, his steps sliding before he could catch himself, and there was a hand at his back. He was tempted to push him off, out of anger or putrid childishness, especially in front of so many people—looking like a coward. Who wouldn’t be buckling at the sight of a gawking symbol, a symbol of death, imminence. To perpetuate fear not only in George, not only his kingdom and citizens, but to perpetuate dominance of control. 

George’s beat of his heart was rhythmic with the frantic whispering and splashes of swift footsteps, all he could hone on was sapnaps gently placed hand on the small of his back and the sounds. he even picked up on Quackitys teeth-hiss and the quipping shrill of his finger snaps as he ordered guards and staff. With the crowd growing thick like a sheep herd, George had to be ushered away, and his feet walked faster than his legs could, or his brain. Sapnap was with him, but it’s clear he wanted to stay and help Quackity. Even Niki was there, the elusive Knight Commander, with a soft glaze of fear and stagnant control. She looked at Sapnap, and he even seemed to lose tension in his taut body when he saw her. 

George’s mind was vivid with the mangled bodies of crows, the ajar beaks foamed and lolling. the protruding, feeble bird bones and the thick pungency of blood and excretion. The stage of decay had been anew, so the flies weren’t swarming and the innards of the birds hadn’t melted into a puddle of mush, but george can only imagine if they were. and George can only wonder what kind of message came from that, a massacre of a flock of birds, strewn across his front gate. there was more symbolism than he could wrap around, and he had no deductive skills to find it. The obvious was the warning of a threat that came from technoblade only a day ago, a mysterious masked envoy (and possible eunuch….), and now a pile of blood, bird shit, and bones. He actually had the nerve to laugh, almost in disbelief, for this moon has been more discordant than those before it. Sapnap noticed it, his in-shock laughter, and chewed on his lip enough to rip the skin till it was sour. 

“are you ok?” he asked. 

George blinked up at him, “yes—yeah.” he answered distantly. 

Sapnap drew his lips into a fine line, and huffed. He didn’t know what to say, and neither did George. The shaky walk back to his quarters was nothing less than embarrassing, and the awkward discomfort and fear lingering like a stormy cloud didn’t help much either. 

Sapnap stopped at his bedchamber entrance, whereas George stumbled a bit due to the support he had lying on Sapnaps shoulder. 

“Listen,” he started, “it’s better if you don’t leave your chambers—“

“What?” George cut him off with a shake of his head and a laugh. 

Sapnap frowned. “you can’t leave.” 

“You can’t _make that decision_ for me…” George slowly pulled away from him.

“George.” he grabbed his arm, “right now, i _have_ to.” 

“I have to make sure you’re safe. at least until tomorrow.” 

“No—“ George chuckled. 

Sapnap’s face was laced in sympathy, holding a degree of care that George wanted to claw out. 

He hissed, “i’m the king, i have to—i have to be out there. I can't just hide, thats—” 

“George, George.” Sapnap firmly grappled onto his shoulders. 

“I'm not hiding, I'm not, Nick.” George flailed his gestures. 

Sapnap stiffened, and his hands were tighter, digging into his shoulders. 

“George.” he whispered, “I _need_ you to stay. _please.”_ Sapnap, nearly with frustrated, guilty tears in his eyes, but George knew it was more anger out of control and _passion._

Looking at the floor, George's breathing was angry, blistering with heat. 

“it might not even be a threat—“

“don’t try to _lie_ to me, I know exactly what that is!” Sapnap raised his voice, and George clenched his fists. 

“I can't just _hide_!”

“you aren’t hiding, you need to be safe, and you need to be _here_.” 

“i'm not the only one in danger, i’m not the only person in this kingdom.” George spat. 

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be _PROTECTED!_ you are king—george, you can no longer act like an angry child, you are to be safe _first._ ” Sapnap clipped. 

“I'm not acting like a child,” He muttered. 

He pinched the forefront of his nose, “you’re being selfish,”

George scoffed, “how am i being selfish, i’m trying to be _present_ for my people?” he asked incredulously 

“ _you_ are their people. you’re their _KING_ ! This threat is against you, George, you need to be here—safe— _or you cannot protect them at all!_ ” Sapnap bellowed. 

George flinched, and the clench in his fist weakened. He felt like he had been struck, rather beaten with a hard club. His face was crossed with hurt and an angry scowl. He watched the regret and mingle of frustration flash over Sapnap’s face, and he said nothing, only slammed the chamber door in his pitiful face with wind-whipping force. 

  
  
  
  


____________

  
  


Tommy slapped his hand around the hilt of the axe, loosely swinging it. 

“Christ—Tommy, please.” Wilbur whispered, his ghostly, pallid hovering a foot away. 

“What!” He screeched, “I’m gonna fuck up shit with this thing!” He said with a low whistle, sliding his finger against the bladed side. 

“you can’t even swing it right, tommy.” 

“Yes I can! you fuckin’ bloke of a pig,” he grumbled, tossing another swing and indefinitely lodging it in an oak trunk. 

Technoblade, with Wilbur inundating lightly at his side. 

“He’s not half bad,” he warbled, and Techno sighed. 

They watched in mild confusion and fear as the boy tried to dislodge the axe, his screams and scrabbling of fury creating a cacophony of shaking leaves and a squabble of pissy birds. To no avail, and no sign of stopping, Techno stepped in and yanked the axe out of the trunk with controlled ease; while Wilbur humorously tried to grab it as well, his hands slipping through the hilt. 

“i think a stick will be a better weapon for you tomm—,” 

“SWORD!!” the dirt-ridden boy bellowed, snatching Techno’s sheathed netherite steel from his hip when he was preoccupied with the hankering axe. 

There was very little hesitation: Techno raised the axe, the frame of the horrific thing shadowing Tommy's entire upper half. He looked up nervously, daring to smile, and hesitantly let the sword clatter to the floor. 

“I think a stick will do nicely.” Techno confirmed with a solid nod. 

“it’s a safe option overall,” Wilbur mumbled. 

Techno fashioned a random bramble next to him, giving it to tommy. he boy made the grossest scowl known to man, holding it up awkwardly with a loose fist. 

“I can’t stab people with this .. stick…,” he growled. 

“Tommy, let me handle the minor terrorism,” he said with a content nod, sliding the broadsword back into its sheath. 

“I want to terrorize shit!” He yelled, waving the stick around like he was trying to stab Wilbur’s wispy stature. 

“That hurts,” Wilbur covered his chest and stomach. 

“You’re a ghost, you absolute buffoon! great for fencing practice,” He said through tight huffs as if it were a decent exercise. 

Technoblade sighed, unclamping his sack and hesitantly pulled out a disfigured, charcoal brushed skull. Tommy looked up at him, his eyes widening a fraction. 

“Take it, Tommy.” Techno placed it into his hand, purple liquid oozing from the rotted onyx teeth and gaping sockets. It even burned to the touch a bit, purplish mist snaking into the air above them, signaling more than just anarchic chaos, Tommy’s eyes alight with ferocity.

  
  


———————

  
  


Ah, here he was again. the world eating his brain inch by inch, second by second, the glimmer of the candle light and the flick of drizzling rain. Here he was, stuck, hidden, shoved. a bird in a cage, or maybe a toy in a box. All he could see were those crows, the faces of the people around him, the taste of bitter words sticking to his tongue. His finger twitched to touch it, to know that it’s still there, and that it still stung, Sapnap’s face of anger and hurt flashing through his head. 

He couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t sleep, because his skin broke out in goose flesh, his heart pumped—

He widened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling, just as he has been for the last hour or so. He barely watched dusk come, which he tends to enjoy, but what good did it come when he could hear whispers through his window. His eyes were open and his fists taut, and he could see the scene replaying on the ceiling. Words he wanted to speak, words he couldn’t, words he shouldn’t’ve. George awkwardly twisted onto his side, curling his arms under his pillow, pressing his cheek hard into it. Having his back face away from the window made him shake, the twinge of a shadow, a creep over his spine and skin, he flopped onto his back once more. He could feel it—the gruel of their twisted, animalistic bodies, their eyes with no lids and their eyes with no tears, what would have been if it were a person, and not an animal? 

He thinks of Sapnap too, the echo of his yelling, the vexed pinched brows. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him that mad, at him at least. A part of him _wants_ to regret what he said, but he mostly doesn't. He still can’t find anything wrong with what he said, besides a few things. 

George tries to recall the times they’ve genuinely argued. There isn’t many to count, besides the stupid kiddy bullshit over chess, over stupid ball games and who won, who lost, who cheated, who didn’t. It brought a small smile to his face, easing some of the stress built up. growing up with sapnap… was more than good. He's never said it, or told him. 

He twisted to his side, curling his legs into his chest. ok, he regrets it a little more now. 

_‘you can no longer act like an angry child’_

He snickered, a child, he thought. he could see it clearly, the broken baby teeth-mouth of sapnap screaming in hilarity as they jested with sticks and anchored flimsy clubs. he remembers muddy fingers and chasing lizards, scooping up little beetles and stomping around royal's glamored feets, squealing like a monkey-pig. He remembers the glare of his father and the sqwuak of his grandmother, and how fun and how easy it was to avoid getting in trouble. 

He wants to go back, where simplicity and dirt was his kingdom. However, that was toddler tramples, there was a noticeable change on his 14th, no longer aflight with scrabby furred leathers, rather brushed with fine white garb. Young Sapnap bewildered, height in his advantage at the time, the little boy whispering in awe, "youve changed." Looking back on it, it sounds negatively charged, but had only been child-like curiosity. Yeah,he did change, not just wardrobe, but the roll of his posture, his fighting skills sharpened from rock to lithe-steel. the way the world glowed, the way he read and wrote, the way he saw people, the way he breathed royal and regality, the way people saw him...

He wasnt being selfish, he thought bitterly. He knows how to protect himself, he was raised for this, trained for this, made for this. He twisted onto his other side, his back to the window. He still didn't want to apologize, his screwed-tight frown and burrow of brow spoke for the internal bull-headed instinct. less of instinct, more of, what to say with a sorry, 'i'm sorry for being a child, and i'm sorry for forgetting what we've always been'? he bit his cheek, it was eloquent, not to the point. or maybe, 'i'm sorry for being selfish, and i'm sorry for forgetting that we're friends'. No, no. It was too simple. too simple. 

A crack, a protruding sound from his windows strung him out of his thoughts, and the hair on his neck spiked like an intimidated skittish feline. His heart was louder than the crack--he squeezed his fist into the pillow. His body stiff, there was yet another crack at the window. Urgently, George blindly scrabbled at his bedside, gripping the stiff-ended letter opener in twisted fingers. crinkling out of his bed sheets, he stalked towards the window. The ends of the curtains were what covered the rest of the gaping sil. What could be stubborn enough to cling to the slippery edges of the window. a bird, maybe? The knife in his hand and dry lips didnt explain why he wouldwant to see a bird dead. His vision blurred.

A flash of brown and green, the careful grasp of a gloved hand and the arrowed swing of limbs, george couldnt register what was happening, only a loud yelp as his back blunted against the wall, and his shoulder hauntingly pushed at the edge of the sil. Someone had anchored themselves through his window, and his throat and back adhered with an iron-steered grip. He gasped like a blubbering fish, his fingers weak, his head burning from the impact. Would this be where he died? Is this the threat? a twilight stalk, smooth and blunt like a hatchet through his teeth. Messy and impeecabley loud. George groaned, squeezing his fingers and swiveling his wrist to shove the opener into an exposed forearm, awkwardly gashing it with a screech of gritted teeth. The intruder hissed, and george took the moment to slither his writhing body in a rotational form, slapping an arm on their elbow, and slammed their entire body into the wall, and shoving the blunt knife to their throat shakily. 

He could feel their breath, and he could finally see them, the moon basking the green emboldened garb, and the mask covering his face, but the vicious emerald eyes were so apparent, that George momentarily lost his grip. The fanning of his breathing became more clear on his skin, on his cheeks, on his face and neck. 

“Dream?” George whispered, frightened. 

Another crash, and there he was, back against the wall and his tailbone spiking with pain after the vigilante spun him with his own slithering momentum, he had taken the chance when George froze, 

“Bloody fu--”

“Is this how you say hello?”

George pinched his face in pain, his wrist grinding under the leather give of his gloves. fear gushed through his neck, down his spine, down to his very achey fingertips. It made sense, 

it clicked, dream was the threat, it made so much sense, the suspicious man perched in his garden hedges and the flitting conversation, with words empty to give him no idea about who this man was. With weak attempt, george wriggled his other hand out from his clamped side and clumsily grabbed at the edges of his mask, and he received it with a tight clasp around his palm, so tight that the bone grinded--george opened his mouth to yelp--it died in his throat, both of his hands shoved above him and caged in the wall, only his squabbling legs left to use. He stared, sweating, huffing, mindlessly writhing, and with one last yearn for strength, he wrapped his leg around the back of his knee, and desperately _pulled_ Dream’s legs crumpled and he huffed, george stabbed his knee in his upper gut, a cluttered blow, since already being so disorientated ruined any corporal coordination. 

Dreams hand wrapped around the entirety of his hand around his calf, and george tumbled violently, the hiss of his back sliding down the wall, the fumble of his clawless grip into anything he could anchor himself down with, in turn failed as he was mangled down onto the blister of carpet burn on his back and hands. George breathed in, opting for it, sucking in a scream, but before George could drop his tongue, dreams hand snatched his jaw and hammered the back of his skull straight into the ground. The squeeze of his hand around his jaw was sweaty, it burned into his tongue and teeth, George's breath coming out labored and heavy that it buzzed the room with noise, loud enough to wake an angry beast. Georges glare held so much vigor that dream flinched. his head _throbbed,_ and he was sure he had a concussion, but it was the least of his worries. 

“I'm not going to hurt you if you stop kicking,” Dream growled from the dry throat that built from Georges fighting spirit, but dreams stance and raw power didnt exhaust. 

“are you--are you trying to bite my hand?”

George restlessly slapped and scratched at his wrist so he could speak, and Dream sighed--pissy. He grabbed George's wrist with his spare hand, and removed his other from his mouth. He used his leverage with George's bonded wrists to pull him upright, his head lolling back and swaying, and sat up fully. 

His entire face was red from the stress of his iron palm, and he gulped happy air through his mouth, his chest rising and falling sporadically. They sat on the floor, limbs sprawled and staring at each other. hair chafed like hay bales and blood splattered on their lips, fingers, and arms.

“So youre the threat.” George breathed.

“What?” Dream laughed at his feral intensity. 

“Don’t play dumb, those crows were your _doing.”_ he wickedly spat, twisting his wrists angrily, grappling his nails weakly into dreams knuckles. 

“Crows, what? what are you talking ab--” 

His teeth grit--”the crows at the front gate.”

He could hear a smile, “I'm not a mage ,George, how could I pluck crows out of the sky?”

George frowned, his lips churning, “Mn--A bow an’ ar-- _it doesn’t matter!_ if you’re here to kill me, do it.”

A long pause. George realized how scary that mask really was, sheet white, and the pierce of his eyes visible underneath. He could still _feel_ the heat of his eyes on him, even from afar. Then, Dream noticed, sliding his masked face towards him, two hitching breaths away-- and George saw them again, the flame of green, an encapsulated oil lamp, melting into char. George's head reeled back slowly, and his breath quickened, his fear following suit. his body fastened a spear of a glare, and dream melted it into a puddle of red-hot iron. Who was he, before this?

“oh, I will, but not here, not right now,”

George quivered--

“And not fast enough for you to forget it.” he whispered. 

He stared, mouth agape and flies collecting in the inner caverns of his mouth, the blood flow of anguish and visible fear building in his throat. what could he possibly say to that, now with a constant headache of a loaded bow at the back of his head, with a clear shot to slice through his skull. 

“So for now, Your Highness,” he dropped his wrists, a loud thump of limp bruises, and George made no initiative to move. 

“I will protect you,” He raised to his feet, slinking towards the window. 

“to make sure nobody hurts you but me.” he said with a duck, however, grabbed the embroidered copper dagger on his oak polished vanity, which George had realized that is what he came for—his missing dagger. Without another word, dream unfurled a powerful leap out of the crooked drapes; and once again, when george haughtily climbed to his feet to look out at the gaped sil, the man had disappeared with the night. 

  
  


\--------------

The sun scrubbed every surface in his chambers with molten gold, and he could scratch the blisters off his skin as rays crawled up his face. a hand flopping over his forehead, a hand that didnt feel his own, numb and criss-crossed with bulging bruises. A loud groan, and sprawling his legs across the length of his bed, wincing from the tug of mangled muscle. Through his sleepy recollection, he realized that nobody would be here this morning, the tightened security around the gates, gardens, and outer walls left the castle virtually locked down and untouched. Truly, he was alone, his head his only company. 

He trudged to the bath, rubbing his eyes to look into the foggy mirror, and sighed. 

He was busted like a splintered club. his arms in scratches and shambles, his knees bruised and the expanse of his back, wide with carpet burn. It was laughable, last night, surreal. George confirmed he needed to hold a knife on him, and to tighten the locks on his window sills in his quarters. 

Quite frankly, he had no idea what to think.

_‘Oh I will, not here, not right now’_

_‘And not fast enough for you to forget.’_

The dream he had flashed across his eyes--

There was a rap of knuckles at the door, and George whipped his head, subconsciously covering his chest. He hadnt been expecting any company. absentmindedly, he threw a cotton long-sleeve blouse over his canvas of spoiled milk, opening the door in quick strides.

“Sapnap?” George slipped, in almost slack-jaw shock.

He was wringing his hands nervously, the visible shame and anxiety falling off of him in waves, the knight wouldnt look at him, even at even eye-level.

“Hello..,” he licked his lips, “I’m .. sorry for yesterday. I overst--”

He hesitated, staring at him. “it’s ok, it’s ok, come in.” George brushed the dust off his shoulder, and sapnap dragged his feet in his chambers in mild bewilderment. 

“what?” He asked in disbelief.

“I still dont think I’m a child, but--” George said, busying himself at a small tea tray, neatly pouring them lukewarm tea.

Before George could finish, Sapnap muffled his laughing with a loose fist over his mouth, and it made George awkwardly grin up at him, gauging his reaction. 

Sapnap relaxed, the anxiety melted off of him. “No, I--i overstepped,” 

It looked hard for him to admit that, George acknowledged. 

“You should want to be there for your people,” he said slowly, “And it was wrong to have caged you in here like you couldn’t--like you aren’t capable of.. fighting.” he trailed off. 

George nodded, placing the tea cup next to him. He didn’t touch his own. 

“The initial shock faded.. we made sure people kept the Wintry Gala in mind, a good distraction while--”

“An investigation?”

Sapnaplooked at him, fiddling his fingers. 

“See… i dont think that.. that there's enough for an investigation.”

“What?'' George huffed incredulously, “what do you mean there isn't enough--the-the crows! there has to be traces of a potion or tampering magic it isn--”

“George. theres nothing,” his eyes pleaded just as much frustration as George did. 

“There's no traces of anything. We-we even scathed the landscape _for miles,_ George.”

George stared, a sudden flood of anguish falling forefront, like a hazy rapid. his chest rose, and his eyebrows narrowed towards the bridge of his nose. 

“That doesnt-it doesnt make any sense!” He flicked his head away from sapnap, who seemed desperate to give him consolation, but he had nothing to give, nothing to say. 

“It may have been an accident, george..” Sapnap said, heavily cautious. 

Georges eyes widened incredulously, “this wasn't a coincidence,”

He added, lowering his voice, “and you not acknowledging that is worrying.” 

Sapnap pressed a hard sigh, pinching his eyes shut. “this isn’t _my_ doing, george, we’re running in circles again.”

George felt another crash of anger. These past few days, these warbling words of his own best friend, didn't make sense. The evidence had to have been removed, or there may have been rune magic involved (which was far fetched, even now) It was frustrating because he didn't know what else to say, what else to break his armor, because this was a problem deeper than just a duty, deeper than just this kingdom. Something felt painfully loud in the air, the way Sapnap had been so harsh, those skittish eyes of quackity. 

There was more than he was being told, or anyone knew. George _knew. He knew,_ yet he registered to everyone as crazy, conspiracy, lost in it. 

George stared, “Sapnap,”

“Who is Dream?” he echoed 

Then, there was a crack in the glaze over Sapnap’s eyes, like there had been a guard in his pupils, and the mild and momentary stir in his expression had been an internal mental crash; and George was only seeing it on a surface level. George wanted to prod further, step closer, be closer, be inside. be inside in his head. 

“‘Dream’?” Sapnap aired out, “i dont--i dont know who that is.. it. It's irrelevant, George, there is no investigation, ok--stop.” He paused, carefully. 

George caught that! He hesitated, he stumbled. scanning him like a hawk, Sapnap’s wall of features built up with a neutral tight lip. 

“Who is he, Sapnap.” he said lowly. 

“ _I dont know!_ ” he hissed, throwing up his hands in frustration, looking at george like he was _crazy,_ like he was _stupid_. he could see it in his frustration, in the crease lines of his forehead and the sweat down his neck. 

“Ok.” George said, collecting his tea cup and placing it back onto the tray. it fell quiet. and it was painfully thick. 

“Why do you keep asking about it, who is he?”

George stilled at the tea tray, his back to sapnap, grimacing. 

quackity’s words echoed in his head. _Trust no one, George._

“No reason.” He answered simply. 

Sapnap sighed, and he could hear the rustle of his leathered plate and gloves, “are you done now?”

George gripped the edge of the tray. 

“Yeah, I'm done. drop all of the investigations.”

“all of them?” His voice cracked.

“There's nothing to investigate like you said, right?”

Sapnap shifted awkwardly. 

“We have to prepare for the wintry ceremony, today, so, no more of.. the melodrama,” George said with a plastered smile.

“Ah, yes, where you snip the last autumn Silk from the Grand Oak, it's always so beautiful,” Sapnap sighed softly, thinking back on the ceremonies he, George as well, had experienced as a child. 

George popped a side smile, busying himself with his bookshelf dusted in book spines. “Remember my first?”

“Pf--It would be hard to forget you cutting your finger instead of the flower,

George rolled his eyes with a forced smile. The atmosphere thick. Him and Sapnap had been dressed like kingly little fiends, nearly tearing their garments as they were late to the ceremony. At that age, the tree felt much bigger than it did now. So to George, his first time had felt like snipping off the finger of a large cycloptic dryad. 

“Alright, get out, lazy bum. Let me get dressed.” George started to push the man towards the door, slapping his arm. 

“Awe’, Your Highness! Let me help,” Sapnap cooed, digging his heels into the ground as an anchor. 

“Get out..” He groaned, and Sapnap laughed in a hiccup, but the door shut behind him, and George pressed his ear to the door to hear his retreat. and with a final hard gust of air, he slid down the door and thumped to the floor. 

\-----------

The ceremony had been rather short, and uneventful. The crowds had been stuffy, and beautifully entranced as his gloved fingers worked along the Autumn Silk. As a kid, he loved this ceremony, seeing so much grand beauty in the mammoth trees, roped in dark brown bark and narrow leaves. Over time, it became almost a chore, and he knew better than to make that obvious.. He enjoyed the child's faces, the same ones that reminded him of himself as a child, looking up at Grand Oak. 

His fingers brushed the trunk lightly, the crowd retreating with soft words of excitement, the Gala being only in a matter of a few hours. He could already see the tint of the lady nails and stink of parfum. 

He looked back to the tree. Where did this all start, the sweet old sap? How much longer has this tree lived than his great-great-great ancestors, and why had it been so cherished? He looked up at the skyline, the sketch of leaves and the cracks of sun falling in between. 

A tree so old had become more of a king than he ever could be. 

“your highness?” Fundy swishes his tail, seeing it from his peripheral. 

He said nothing, turning to him and raising his brows. 

“The Hall is nearly finished, if you wanted to do the run through and get fitted?” Fundy had a quill (dripping with ink, by the way) hanging from his ear. 

George frowned amusedly, and weakly pointed to his ear. “Uh, you got a bit of..” 

Fundy’s hand flew to his ear, “oh! my bad, I forgot to leave it in the ink bottle.” 

_what a peculiar, fickle Fae._ George thought to himself, smiling a bit mockingly, and followed Fundy in loose footsteps towards the castle halls, now that the ceremony was over. 

Entering the Gala hall was a fearsome sight, monstrous walls and the floor kindly plastered with honey-drip appetizers, sparkling pillars, drinking gold engravings of oaks and flowers. The floral hung ceiling created a beautiful midst of spring air and pungency. The Wintry Gala was to kindly bring forth winter into their kingdom, the monstrous history of their winters moons ago had led to a tradition to respect a love-charged transition into the Winter months. His country took winter hard to the teeth, biting. The Gala gave hope for spring on the other side, and to forthcome a prosperous winter and warm holidays ‘n homes. No doubt, it was the most important event to George, the way he valued it in his reign had brought the most beautiful winters, and the hearty bloom of springs. His most accomplished event, the sting of strong pride enveloping him as he trekked the decorative Hall. His mother had been the last Wintry Gala accomplice, it was personable and soul-binding: to have such a strong Ball, it meant to take full consideration of the atmosphere, the drinks, and the taste of love. 

He remembers, so tenderly, the caress of his mother’s fingers down the side of his cheek, their bodies coddling the fireplace. He remembers her soft stories of Yenhaven’s inglorious winters, and how she would trail on and on about the Galas bringing alive the spirits of the trees and flowers. Which is why their kingdom was lined to the brim with earth and life, due to the lineage sinking roots deep into primordial earth magic, the very dendro spirit living vicariously through his fingertips. He had not been as refined as his mother, the existence of her being mother nature’s moon child, he was only a man, after all. She would tell him that male heirs had weaker connections to the dendro spirit, but she would tell him all the same _he had the power to connect just as much as she could._

Something awkwardly welled up in his chest, in late discernment that it might be the only way to truly connect back to his mother. 

_Despite never using magic, what could he ever do to meet her again?_

He was ripped out of his thoughts, Bad and Quackity bickering a few tables away, by the fruits, which had luckily been prepped. They didn’t notice him, but he still made his way over. 

“You’re wrong, you're wrong!” Quackity threw his hands up, making the ‘it-is-what-it-is-i’m-right’ face. 

“Apples pair best with _this_ cheese, Quackity, you’re arguing to argue!” Bad huffed. 

Quackity grabbed the platter of finely sliced apples and slapped it next to the rest of the fruits, a cornucopia of ripe colors. “Put the fruit _with the fruit_ ,” he hissed.

“Do you not understand wants and demands?” Bad slapped the platter out of his hands, taking it into his own, staring hard at quackity like he was the stupidest person he’s ever talked to. (could be true) 

“wants or demands of _who!_ you?” he enthused. 

Bad rolled his eyes, scoffing, “no, you know this isn’t about me. ” 

“does it matter?” George butted in. 

Their heads whipped, and Bad had already screwed his face apologetically, quackity staying neutral. 

“Well—“ Bad twisted out. 

“Nope. it doesn’t matter. The fruit goes with the fruit. Let’s go, Bad, we have more to do.” Quackity urged him, and Bad had been too scared to storm up another argument in front of George, trampling bratty in Quackity’s personal space, flicking his head and puffing. He could hear their squabbles and giggles as they retreated. 

He hadn’t missed the smile Quackity gave him either, but the smile hadn’t been real. 

  
  


————

George brushed his fingers down his corseted torso, goggling at the sharp lines of his waist. Before he could pay any more attention to curvature, he heard a soft knock at the door. He turned, the door opening on que. Sapnap eyes dilated, dramatically surprised by George’s garb, entranced almost. 

“Wow,” He breathed, “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“What?” George turned away, his eyes in the mirror, gingerly rubbing powder over his cheeks. 

“Oh, nothing,” Sapnap brushed it off with the wave of his hand, and held out his arm. 

“Ready, your highness?” 

George deadpanned. Sapnap looked rather sharp as well, all corners of his suit tucked neatly and his shoulder accentuated, formal knight wear fitting him in all the right places, hair slicked and a proud Knight broach on the left side of his black surcoat. George hesitantly grabbed his arm, but removed it just as fast. 

“My grandmother will be there,” he said, acknowledging the idea that his grandmother would want him to come alone, to appeal to the ladies awaiting him on the ballroom floor. 

“I know, I saw her,” sapnap opened the door with a satisfied half-smile.

“oh, yeah, youre a fucking bloke.” George hissed, and it was received with a snort. 

Approaching the ballroom floor entrance was stuffy, and he collected stares with every step he took. Ladies and Dukes mingling with flutes of bubbles, the curious smile to get under the ladies panties, he could see it in the haze of talk and glass-clink. Sliding past the guards with a smile, they nodded, and the Gala floor was breathtaking. Already crowded, too, and he could see the blur of recognizable faces and smiled teeth for miles. It was almost overwhelming, the crowd, but it felt steady as he walked deeper.

Lady gowns draped in every vibrancy, dripping with lavish and money; the fine dip of coats and gold-plated cuffs, slicked hair and high-button boots. The glorious stuffiness of flora, and the decorative earth tingling every inch of each pillar and wall made it truly feel _real_ ; the radiation of magic pungent, rising like a heady tide of lust and lusciousness. 

The Minister of L’manburg even made it, his crowd accumulating with every sweet smile he flashed, his naivety brimming in his small frame and coat. It was rather cute, he thought a bit mockingly, however, as a young king himself, he had no room to tease. Commander of the Knights, Niki was softly huddled with Quackity and Bad, a stern-lip, he noticed coming from her. Ah, he realized distantly, she must be lecturing them on their manners, with poor Faen Bad nearly in tears of confrontation. Fundy was a pinch to find in the midst of the crowd, but the person he was talking to was covered by a bulbed, tall head in the way. Sapnap had been pulled by the thick scent of booze and needy women (who had no qualms to complain), and threw George an excited smirk over his shoulder. Interestingly enough, he could see the cross pass of Karl, the effeminate garb, sultry and navy, earning a desperate double-take from Sapnap, and George found this sneaky interaction to be.. not only one-sided, but unpredictably odd. He blinked furiously, looking away. 

“Your highness?” A spiced voice, George turning to look at the source. 

It (sadly) took him a minute to recognize who she was, but after a few minutes, those slithering lips registered. 

“Lady Naho’his,” he said lightly. His grandmother's pleas over wanting him to find a Queen, or even an Heir. he shivered at the thought of his grandmother choosing for him, so he consciously gave her his full undivided attention. 

She smiled gratifingly, a small crinkle at her eyes. “Yes, yes, it is wonderful to see you.” She said, heavily accented. 

She was rather beautiful, George admired, his eyes trailing down her voluminous pear figure, complimented by the close-fitting demure gown. Wrung in ornate jewels and a nightmare purple, which starkly brought the crisp blue of his caped suit.

George held out his hand, “could I have this dance?” he asked, his eyes flitting towards the spacious floor, where swaying couples embraced in sync with the whining violins. She bristled in delight, taking his hand, where he was dragged into the quick rhythm of the ballroom floor. 

He did the best he could taking the lead, his insufficient ballroom dancing lessons having him trip slightly in her elegance; her style of dancing impressing and simultaneously intimidating him. She noticed, making no note of it, only guiding him a bit slower, pulling him a bit closer. A brush of red filled his high cheekbones, and her nurturing smile showed it had only been an act of sweet intention, no room for mockery. After a stumble or two or more, he clasped his fingers with hers, an intimate hand on the small of her back. 

“Your grandmother has told me lots about you,” she tilted her head, teasing, the frame of her face had a delectably beautiful twinge to it. It made his suit feel rather stuffy, and a nervous chuckle erupting from his chest. 

“Has she?” He hugged her closer. 

“Oh yes, I loved hearing about what a dirty child you had been,” she pretended to snar, scrunching her nose. 

“Please,” he looked away with an embarrassed smile, “she doesn’t know how to make me look good.”

She raised a brow, “I think she did a fine job, otherwise I wouldn’t be dancing with her grandson.”

“she has an interesting way of--selling me off.” he cut her into a soft twirl, her eyes never leaving him. The world was theirs.

“Selling you off?” she asked, a genuine laugh bubbling in her throat. 

“Too harsh?” he asked in a lilt of tease, but it was to mask a simmering anxiousness. 

She blinked furiously, “No, no, I admire directness.” 

they were flush, heart to heart, his visible beat smoothing flawlessly with his warbling footsteps. She still guided, however as the piano notes became more violent, peoples excited spirits and eyes didnt linger on the young king’s clumsy footing longer than necessary. She was also happy to conceal his feet with her gown, and begged the gods not to step on it by accident. She seemed amused by it, but never out of negativity, only pleased to be of help. He oddly liked that. 

He snorted, “I assume you dont hear it often?”

“Not as much as you would think,” she said with a wan, good-humored smile. 

“Truthfully,” he cleared his throat to whisper down her neck, “I despise flattery, I can see right through it.”

She nodded, rather urgently. “Chivalry is dead and rolling in its grave.”

He actually laughed, surprised by her quick quips, pleasantly surprised. She was great company, better than anyone he's conversed with in the last moon or two. Her smile was easy, and she twirled him outward as he had done before. He lightly grappled onto her wrist, pulling her taut to him. static. he realized faintly, the gloss of her full lips, and thick lashes. Admittedly, he didnt have the best of luck or time with women. George saw more in her, saw more than just her in her curvaeous dress and glam, a nestling comfort sidling up his sides. His lack of action and the hanging cliff of heady magic stirring with every twirl--he could taste her lust in his eyes. It was no accident for the love-charged air, this was the trance of the traditon, of the Wintry Gala, it grew roots of yearn deeper into your veins than they had been before. 

“You make my dancing look good,” he muttered, his eyes lidded.

even through the magical atmosphere, her smile was so, so kind, so gentle and sweet.  
“I compliment you well.”

His heart thumped. “You do.”

“Excuse me?” Came a voice. 

George turned, the two of them had already been teetering at the edge of the ballroom floor, the crowd of dancing and giggles seeming an entirely different world when he heard the voice. People scattered ‘round the floor, watching, breathing into each other's ears, eating or chatting lightly with cheese squares and a swig of spirits.

“Could I steal your majesty from you, Lady Naho’nis?” 

George refocused, and soon, his jaw started to fall slack. Her face was alight in recognition, Lady Naho’nis spoke animatedly, familarily. 

“No, I think im--”

“He’s yours, Dream,” Lady Naho’nis giggled, a brush to his broad shoulder, the flirty look between them had him reeling back. 

Before George could refuse, or maybe make a hasty run for it, Dream grabbed his wrist, his waist, and had him on the dance floor. His body bristled in fear, in caution, the rough body language reminding him of only the night prior, eating each other alive in a messy fight. 

The man was nearly unrecognizable. The foppish, deep green puffed tunic made his tan skin starkly luminate. He didn’t dress as luxurious as the knights, but his deep set belt and muscular stature made him catch the eye of bitten-lipped Ladies. With a quick glance down, he could see the form fit of his pants, and how well they /emphasized everything/. His palette: greens and browns. He suited the earthy theme and did it charity, by dressing so fine to collect drool from every onlooker. In his arms, George stuck out like a gruelish thumb. He wore a mask, masquerade style, dripping in tear-drop pearls. His tufted hair and scruffy chin barely visible, but more than he has ever seen of him. George started to struggle, his hands firmly placed on his chest. Dream flicked the opening of his belt open, which-- was suggestive in itself, and revealed a deeper belt of copper knives, methodically placed at his hip.

George stopped struggling. 

“Let me go, Dream,” George nearly hissed, keeping a perfectly neutral face due to all the eyes on them. 

“so soon?..” he crooned, gravelly, right at the crook of his ear. His thick hands adjusted over the thin expanse of his hips, making it even more aware to George the narrowness of his lithe body was easily snapped, easily broken, easily eaten alive. 

“Why are you doing this? Why are you here?” he whispered sternly. 

“Did you forget?” he mocked, “merchants, traveling envoys were all invited. Im a good business deal.” 

“You know youre not supposed to be here.” he breathed, shaking. He said this, seeing through the facade. Dream had been lying to him, stalking him, and threatened to kill him. George should be able to escape, but he quite literally couldn't, and he couldn't make a scene either. 

Dream stayed quiet. He titled his head to the side, in sardonic fashion, and smirked weakly (george only catching a sliver of it). He warmed his hands along his sides, and even through the stuffy corset, his hands were molten. 

“Just dance with me, George, enjoy yourself.” He whispered, taking the lead just as Lady Naho’nis had, but with more demand. Dream noticed his stumble, and the slight tremble of fear wracking his nerves. His hands were so secure, the feeling of Dream’s shoulders were solid, and hot. so fucking hot to the touch. 

George bitterly looked away, saying nothing. He tried his best not to make his disdain visible to the public, but it was hard when he was sure his life was being threatened.

“Lady Naho’nis is a wonderful dancer, isn’t she?” Dream taunted in the silence, and the length of the flirty tone implied more than just dancing. 

George’s eyes narrowed, “What?”

Dream strained his neck to whisper directly into George’s ear, his lips touching his lobe. He involuntarily shuddered--

“She’s wonderful in bed, too.”

George drowned in ice-cold lust that he wanted to abandon. 

“She tastes sweeter than she looks, George,” god, sultry dripping in his tongue, all intentional, and George’s head was slightly craned back, in hopes to escape the race of his heart. Dream could see his physical pain, feel it in the tremors of his arms and lips. 

“Did you threaten to kill her as well?” He mumbled.

Dream smirked, ghosting over the King’s skin. “Youd be surprised how many people like to hear that,”

George hated how deep the man was in the crook of his neck. 

“they love danger, they like it _rough._ ” He growled into his skin, like he was a desperate, strung out beast. George wanted to claw out, he needed to stop the rush of blood and burst of squirming and need. He felt like trapped prey, in the hands of a man who has had so many chances to kill him, and hasnt. 

“What--What are you even talking about,” He huffed, eyes lidded, averted, weak. Dream smelt so fiery, like cinnamon and pepper. Thick on his tongue, speaking even more of a challenge. The only defense George could muster was looking away, rather than the burning eyes boring through him.

Dream spun him, the cape twisting with him, creating an illusionary gust of blues and greens. George hadnt had a secure balance, but thank gods for Dream’s solid, guiding hand over his back and body. It disorientated him, the spin, he had to cling to Dream. It was received happily, and they settled into each other closer. 

“Don’t play dumb.” Dream mocked in his Yenhaven accent, and George gawked at him, being more steady-footed than before. 

“I’m not playing dumb,” he muttered, just trying to avoid hear more. 

He smiled back at him, barely seen, but George saw the stretch of his chin, a little bit of dimple. Dream’s head turned, using his face as a pointer in the direction towards Fundy, and george followed his eyes. 

“What?” he asked cautiously, curiously.

Dream flicked his head back at him, his head tilted. 

It clicked. “Did you bed him too?” George’s eyebrows disappeared.

He took Dream’s silence as a yes. 

“Did he like it _rough_ , Dream?” He looked up at him through his lashes, and he heard the tight hitch of his breath, the sudden stiffness of his hands and shoulders under his arms. 

Dream laughed, in the most vulnerable way he could. releasing the tension, looking away from George’s purposeful lustful face. His body language was silent. George frowned. He noticed a shift in Dream’s attention, or topic of mind. Not out of what he had said, he could tell by the dig of his calluses into his back, and the magnetic pull keeping them both at bay. 

“Thank you for the dance, Your Highness,” Dreams voice empty, his attention clearly elsewhere. A part of George was surprised, also confused, and didn’t like the sudden coldness in his waist and hands as Dream walked away, who didnt spare him a spark of a look-back. 

George, slightly vexed, mindlessly walked back to where he had been previously, arms crossed behind his back. He unconsciously squinted through the crowds to find a glimmer of green and dirty-blonde, and could not see through the haze of bodies and earth. The dancing was loud, the sound of musical laughter even louder, and the presence of magic was heavy on his back, like afternoon soppy back sweat. Delighted with how the Gala turned out, he sought to find Lady Naho’nis, and couldn’t find her neither. Settling by himself for slight, he thought distantly of how proud his mother would be. How she would kiss his cheeks, tell him how much of a wonderful king he made, and how wonderful his queen will be. He puffed out his chest, confidently tall, hoping his mother would see it, see this, feel the magic.

It felt even heavier than before, the magic, so thick he could stick his tongue out into the air and cinnamon fire would burn his tongue. Like a hot snowflake, he could laugh. It was very hot, hotter than before, hotter than when Dream embraced him. 

“Your Highness!” A familiar voice gasped, it was Sapnap, a little tipsy. His eyes were crazed, George saw, as he approached. He was reaching for him, like he was farther away than he actually was. His arm outstretched like George would flee like a scared cat. His face pallid, nearing greenly sick. He must be drunk, the fearful look in his eyes siganling that the lightweight may have alcohol poisioning. It wasnt the first time hes seen this look, or his cracked milk lips, he recalls the awful retching in his tub, and the poor maids who had to clean up after.

“Sapnap?” he took a step forward, 

“ _GEOR--”_

A thunderous roar, like an earthquak ripping the entire world apart. In a hot reverbration,a gust of heat collapsed throughout the entire ballroom. No longer a mere presence of magic, but spears of fire magic erupting the Gala floor from bottom up. George's ears rang, thrown backwards and into the floor by the sheer pressure of heat and power. The flora and earth that hung in the ballroom burned to the ground, covered by drapes and trampling, hot footsteps. The screams, the loud sludge of collapsing glass, plates, and silverware, the dying shout of his name from Sapnap, its all he could hear. Its all the life he could cling onto. The ring in his ears and the tilalating pain in his head wasnt loud enough to drown out agony, gowns and skin being burned alive before his eyes. Burnt flesh smelt putrid. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to turn over and sleep. He wanted to stab the headache out of his throbbing skull, he wanted to burn with this fire if he could escape this pain. Escape the pain of this headache, since its the only part of his body that wasnt numb. Had he ever felt this much pain, had he ever experienced more than a bone? Has he ever seen the ash of someone’s body mangled in jeweled gowns? Has fire ever been bigger than the wick of a small candle? 

Had he listened to his mother when she told him to move a lit candle away from the curtains, rather than whine about it, he wouldnt have to see a fire bigger than that. If he had listened to her, when she told him that fire would be his weakness, he wouldn’t shrivel in hellfire like a quivering flower. He shouldve taken her word for it, to never cross someone who trumped fire, who owned it, who furnished it in their body like it was their blood. He should have listened to her, he should have looked away from every pair of fiery eyes, from every pair of passionate eyes. He should have listened to her so he wouldnt have gotten burned. He should have listened to nature when it told him he couldnt be more than a fragile flower. He should have just accepted he couldn’t be anymore than Earth’s petals of life. 

The Wintry Gala had been sabotaged, entirely brought to distraught, and George listened to mother nature weep through the floor, his ear pressed hard against it. 

How many people were dead? How many people were burned, and or thrown by the explosion? How many people fled before they were engulfed by flames of hell rising to bring them down?

“ _George_ ” a desperate croak. George barely heard it in the crackle. Sapnap awkwardly limped over to him, hurriedly. Something burned in George. Why didn't he take care of himself _first?_ Why did he look so urgent as he crouched next to George, trudging him to sit up against a crashed table. Why was he here? It burned through George, an additional fire added to the blaze. 

“Sapnap,” He rasped. A soot caked hand wiped away the blood from his forehead, trembling against his skin. George’s vision started to clear, his urgent face more visible. 

“Don’t speak, don't speak,” He hushed him, and washed a look over his body to confirm he had no serious wounds. He didn't feel any, and sapnap didn't find any. The tension broke miserably from Sapnap’s shoulders. 

However, George heard another pair of footsteps, careful and calculated. Sapnap didn't notice at first, but quickly registered it, flinging his head. The wide eyes grew wider--George nervously gripped Sapnap’s shirt. 

“ _Eret.”_ Sapnap hissed vehemently, hard with hatred that overthrew the blaze of fire and the lingering screams. 

Sapnap unsheathed his sword fervently, covering George protectively with it. It only served as a symbol of protection, Sapnap’s hand trembling on the hilt. 

“I’m happy to see you’re alive. ” Eret said, smirking with fire boldened in his palm, rolling like a marble.

George stared, in mild shock. He really should have listened. Eret had been a competitive child, lurking in vindictive pits of fire that kicked george in the gut whenever he got too close. George made distance between them, whether of being nervous, or just an awkward teenage. Their schooling years together meaning little to nothing up to this moment. 

“Why?” George asked, his eyes blank in confusion, tearing at the edges from the heat. 

“Back up, Eret.” Sapnap snarled with as much might as he could, his spare hand forcing posture. 

The man, glossy, white eyed, flicked his head to Sapnap. “What could you do with that flimsy sword?”

“stake it through your heart, you half-blood vehemen.” Sapnap said with brimming hatred, holding his sword with a stronger grip. 

In a quick flash, Eret frowned. He easily tricked Sapnaps weak defense, grabbing the front of his tunic, pulling him taut and upwards. He clocked him so hard in the jaw that George heard something crack grotesquely.

“ _Sapnap!”_

The horrendous sound made George yelp, staring in shock as Sapnap fell limply to the floor, knocked out. Blood dribbled down his mouth and nose, his tired eyes filled with guilty tears. He could see his shaky hand trying to grab his own. George weakly clasped it with his own, biting down an angry, frustrated sob. 

“Eyes on me, George.” 

He looked over, revolted and humiliated. he stared at him, hard. his face turned down in stony anguish, and George wanted nothing more to strangle him to the floor, and see his own face bloodied with cracked teeth and pain. 

“Just like that.” He taunted, taunting his distraught, his fear, his anger, his sadness. he was looking him right in the face and mocking him for clinging to his friend. 

“What did you hope to achieve?” George seethed. the landscape of charred earth, ripped dresses and burnt flesh, it was treacherous, an act of terrorism and violence. 

“Achieve?” Eret cocked his head to the side, swinging his sword so the blade slipped right against his jugular. 

“I want to be king.”

He gulped. 

“Then take it. take this kingdom. see how they will love you.” George spat, unafraid of the death pointed in his direction. a compass that always led back to him. 

“I don’t need their love,” he scoffed at George’s naivity. 

“do you really think that’s what it takes to be a good king?” he goaded at him, his face stretched humorlessly. 

“You can’t rule with fear.” George whispered, careful not to bob his Adam's apple, aware of the sharp edge. 

George couldn’t stop the overflow of tears, embarrassingly enough; from being overwhelmed, from the heat, from sapnap being knocked out in his arms, from the dying earth around him, from the idea of dying. 

Shaking in rage, the traces of appreciation he’s ever had for this world outside of his own became angry and unjust. He wanted nothing to do with this world. he hated it. he hated Eret, he hated people like Eret. “Just kill me.”

“not that simple, George.” he pressed the blade deeper into his jugular, blood beading and blending into sterling. 

“I want to watch you writhe.”

George craned his neck, trying to shy away. 

“ _why_?” his voice had cracked into a plea. 

Erets lip curled into an annoyed snarl, “You took the throne from me.” 

There had been no throne for Eret in the first place, no dainty seat saved for him. George was appointed Heir at the age of fourteen, whereas Eret would have only had the chance if he died, due to his weak lineage next to George’s pure, royal blood. This vindictive, envious spirit has been growing since they were fourteen. No wonder, the heart of his fire came from _fire._

“it was never for you,” he spit back into his face. 

“I’m going to make it mine.” the blade dug further into his neck, George trembled and cried out. 

“And it starts with you.” Eret grinned. 

George bristled in humiliation, the tears of anger and exposure wracking his patience. Waiting for his life to flash before his eyes. He closed his eyes, too scared to see the face of a man who gleamed in sadism. The very thing he had no control over, the thing he could never understand. 

_what could you want so bad to kill it_? 

it made him wish for his mother to answer the questions he couldn’t answer, it made him wish for magic that hadn’t weakened because he chose to weaken it. he wished he hadn’t chosen to be weak, nothing without the people around him, nothing without Sapnap. 

He was being hung by a noose with the chair underneath him—not being pushed far enough to suffocate him, his one foot dangling off of it. 

Eret tightened his lips into a fine line, raising his broadsword, drawing it back. his arm was pulled back, solely to gain swift momentum. The look on the man's face was that of glory, of gold, ablaze. ablaze with hatred. George stares. 

dying at the hands of in-directional vengeance, and even seconds before it, he still couldn’t understand it. 

He only thought of his family, of his mother. Could he see her? Or is the way he’s dying not going to be enough? 

George watched the slow drag of his hand, the shine of the blade touching the heavens before it reached him. 

In a fit of rage and light, Eret had been forced into a body-wracking collision, a frustrated growl escaping him. The skid of bodies and shoes jerked George out of his teary-eyed gaze. Eret had been bodied into the ground, too fast for him to have seen it clearly. All he could see, and hear, was a tangle of white and green, soot, and loud puffs and skin-on-skin impact. There was a monstrous crunch, a hard yell, and it went silent. 

Dream rose to his feet, bloodied, breathing hard like an unrelenting beast. 

George shook violently. 

“Wha—“

“ _get up._ ”

George wobbled to his feet, and Dreams shaky fingers grabbed his forearm, screwed tightly, and had no intention of letting go. 

“Let go—“ George dared to protest, and his hand only got tighter. 

“Do you _want_ to die?” he hissed right into his face. He tasted heat. 

“I'm not any safer with you?” George warbled, still clinging onto shock and scrabbling at his calloused fingers on his arm. 

Eret started to rise to his feet, groaning and cursing. The scuff of the pavement made George's breath cut short. 

“I'm protecting you, aren't i?” he wheezed, almost desperately, and the image of him slamming Eret into the ground seconds before he died flashed in his head. 

Eret emboldened a fist of fire, weakly throwing it at George, and he nearly screamed—there was no way he was going to skim getting burned—

A weak, wet burst of ice hissed in the air, coming from Dream’s fingers, and the fizzle of fire and embers globbed onto the floor. 

The visible exhaustion of his body made George ache. He fell awkwardly, his shaky legs breaking his physical support, the grip of Dreams hand his only grounding. The shock ate him like a full, hungry meal. 

Dream held out his other hand. 

George looked up from the floor, terror soaking his bones, and exhaustion rusting him.

“Come with me, George.”

“But Sap-“

“He’ll be behind us.”

George didn’t know what that meant.

“I can't just leav—“ he cracked.

“ _please.”_ Dream said, raw with desperation, and George stared, bewildered. 

_‘I will protect you’_

a flame flickered in his chest, the flames of selfishness licking away at him. He saw Dream, the mental and physical toll, grueling and disfigured by soot and sweat. Eret rising to his feet, his face shoved in itself, his nose clearly smashed. 

Dream wouldn’t outlast another hit. 

George looked back at Sapnap, the man passed out on the floor, however his visible, rising chest assured him. His head ached, his heart smoldering in vexation. He couldn’t do anything, he couldn’t even stand. In a frustrated, loud cry of a curse, he looked away. 

Eret started to pick up more consciousness, the anxiety of Dream radiating off of him in hard oceanic waves. 

He looked at his outstretched hand, unmoving, begging him. George looked at Dream, his masked eyes, full of the most humanity he’s ever seen in him. For the first time, metaphorically, he saw him with a face. It was the face that looked into George, not through him. It hurt to hold his eyes. 

_‘to make sure nobody hurts you but me.’_

  
George grabbed Dream’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggestions, criticism, all is appreciated. 
> 
> i really like this chapter, i hope you do too!

**Author's Note:**

> i’m a slow updater, and i don’t expect much from this fic, nor do i expect it to do super well. i want people to enjoy a small fantasy world with me :D


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